


nothing more, nothing else

by iamanidhwal



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Beach Volleyball, Beaches, Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Day At The Beach, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Introspection, M/M, Miya Atsumu Swears, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Pining Sakusa Kiyoomi, Pro Volleyball Player Bokuto Koutarou, Pro Volleyball Player Hinata Shouyou, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, Pro Volleyball Player Sakusa Kiyoomi, Road Trips, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stargazing, Swearing, Training, Volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: “Who would’ve thought we’d be teammates, huh? And sometimes, it seems like we barely get along. I mean…” And here, Atsumu laughs to dispel any awkwardness that would no doubt hang in the air. “I think ya hated me and my guts ever since we both got signed on to the team, Omi-kun~ I mean, with good reason, but still… ”Kiyoomi, at this point, turns back to the passenger’s side window. He leans his elbow on the armrest and rests his chin on his hand. And although his words are muffled against his palm, they're still clear enough for Atsumu to hear them.“I never hated you, Miya."Six months. Six months, at the very least. Six months is what it takes for Sakusa Kiyoomi to utter five words he’s absolutely, positively sure of.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 417
Collections: MSBY Exchange





	nothing more, nothing else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirabilis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/gifts).



> This is my first exchange ever and I'm so glad to be a part of it!
> 
> When I started this challenge, I was worrying about my word count. 'What if I wrote too few and I let down the requester?'
> 
> And now... *checks word count* I think I can officially say that I have clowned myself immensely. :) 
> 
> Please enjoy! <3 I experimented a little with a non-linear progression narrative that slips in and out of the present timeline. I hope it's still coherent even if it's like this!

* * *

If there was ever one thing that Sakusa Kiyoomi cannot and does not trust (no, not even in the slightest), it’s the universe's impeccable sensibilities to somehow royally screw him over in the uncanniest of times. 

So when the coach of the MSBY Black Jackals makes his way back to where the rest of the team have settled, either sitting or squatting in the middle of a dizzying mess of wrapped gear and pieces of luggage, he already expects the worst. And, judging how Coach Foster looked, his face uncharacteristically pinched in equal parts confusion, worry, and a certain level of helplessness, Kiyoomi can only do so much apart from sighing into his mask, already resigned to his fate.

Apart from him, though, it’s only their team captain, Meian, who notices the arrival of their coach, and the former has to clear his throat quite loudly to get the other members’ attention. All heads snap up attentively.

“So…” Foster starts to say, talking slowly, like an animal trainer backed into a wall. “There’s been some… logistical issues.”

Kiyoomi drowns most of the spiel out, zones in only on the finer points of the matter. Something about a near-complete overhaul of their sponsorships and business partners with the onset of brand new deals, and a dizzying affair of miscommunication between their old and new travel agencies. Normally he’d be paying more attention, or at least be as alert as his usual self, but he had slept only for a few hours in anticipation for their early morning flight from their two-week-long training camp up north in Sapporo back to Tokyo, and Kiyoomi was hoping he’d catch some more shut-eye on the plane. 

“…I’ve called the agency and they said that all flights are fully booked right now,” Coach Foster continues, and Kiyoomi makes it a conscious effort to listen more attentively, if only for the last few seconds. “The soonest we can fly back would be in three days' time.”

Everyone is quiet, thinking of the repercussions. It’s Meian who speaks up first. “Er… I think we don’t have any choice but to stay,” he supplies helpfully.

Foster gives them all an apologetic smile, even though everyone knows he doesn’t need to. It wasn’t his fault, after all. “Rest assured, we’ll have everything done and sorted out. In the meantime, let’s all get back to the hotel. I’ll have a word with the concierge on the way. Meian, could you call the driver to turn back around and have us picked up again?”

The others offer their assents in varying volumes and levels of attentiveness, slumping over any vacant seats and staking claims until their coaster van arrives in the pick-up area. That’s exactly what Barnes and Hinata do, talking as quietly as they can over cheap coffee they bought from a nearby vending-machine, with Bokuto sleeping in-between them, hands clasped over his stomach and with noise-canceling headphones on, effectively dead to the world. Inunaki and Tomas are huddled over to one side, shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling down on their respective phones. Meian is conversing with the coach, trying to help in any capacity he can.

Kiyoomi adamantly stays standing, leaning against a pillar, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket that it stretches the fabric. And although he wants nothing more than to move the hands of the clock hanging on the grey wall forward, to when he'd be back in their Tokyo dormitory complex and he could once again go under his weighted blanket, he doesn’t want to show exactly _how_ exhausted he really feels. So when he’s able to stifle his yawn behind his face mask, he counts that as a win.

“Tired, Omi?” someone asks, and he turns around to see Atsumu had taken position to stand beside him. Hands casually stuffed in his own jacket, his hip cocked to one side and a lopsided, confident smirk on his face, he looks like a grade-A jerk. Kiyoomi thinks viciously, _It’s not far from the truth._

“I’m not,” he answers, because Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t get tired. If he could send a thousand spikes against a wall even after a full day’s worth of grueling training, he can definitely stand for ten more minutes and stay awake for another twenty before he can allow sleep to take over him in a newly cleaned hotel room, and not one minute earlier. 

Atsumu just clicks his tongue at him, and the sound echoes in Kiyoomi’s ears. “Not foolin’ anyone, Omi-omi.”

“I have no idea _what_ you’re talking about,” he retorts hotly, slouching over, a clear indication that he does _not_ want to be disturbed any further. “And will you stop with that nickname already?”

“No can do. The nickname stays until I say so,” the setter replies, smile cheeky and eyes mischievous, and it makes Kiyoomi’s stomach clench. He attributes it to annoyance -- _nothing more, nothing else_. 

Kiyoomi wants to reply, but his mouth is overtaken by another yawn, this time more evident than the last even behind his face mask. Atsumu just gives him an ‘I told you so’ look, and he reciprocates with a well-earned glare before they’re called over by Meian to huddle with the others.

* * *

Exactly six months ago, Kiyoomi finds himself fuming, striding across the court towards Atsumu. He, along with Inunaki and the aforementioned setter, are on one team on a three-on-three match against Hinata, Bokuto, and Tomas. And while two-thirds of their side of the net is sharing a high-ten, and every step closer threatens to have Kiyoomi within the range of Atsumu’s sticky, sweaty hands, he casts those aside. 

Because right now he feels like his whole face is red — with _anger,_ he clarifies. Nothing more, nothing else.

Atsumu turns to him, wide-eyed and grinning. But his mouth, which had opened to compliment Kiyoomi on yet another wicked spike, closes with a comedic clack right at the moment that the curly-haired man takes a fistful of fabric from the front of the setter’s jersey.

The atmosphere is suddenly heavy, as though the air had just been sucked right out of the room, and everyone falls quiet. Kiyoomi doesn’t care — he’s breathing hard from all that practice, or perhaps it’s because of the irritation that threatens to boil over, overriding all of his senses that are usually highly attuned to sweaty skin-on-skin. He feels Atsumu’s breath on his face as he flails backward.

“Oy!” He says incredulously, eyes now wide with another emotion. Apprehension. Confusion. “Let go of me, would ya?”

Kiyoomi grimaces in response. Like hell he’s going to do that; and even if he wanted, he wouldn’t want to since Atsumu asked for it. “What did you call me,” he snarls, trying to maintain control over his voice, making his question sound decidedly not like one.

He sees the blonde’s dark eyebrows meet, knot in the middle, beads of sweat rolling down his hairline and cheek. It takes him two seconds and a slight shaking from Kiyoomi before he answers. “Ah, you mean ‘Omi-omi’?”

“Don’t call me that,” Kiyoomi threatens. 

Atsumu, ever defiant, raises an eyebrow, and his cocky, lopsided smile makes an appearance once more. “Oho? What’s this? Omi-omi doesn’t like nicknames?”

“Don’t,” he hisses a warning. He doesn’t _not_ like nicknames; truth be told, he could care less what other people call him. But this one strikes a chord. 

And Atsumu, the absolute _jerk,_ looks like he knows. And Kiyoomi doesn’t know whether it’s bravery or sheer stupidity that makes him open his mouth, continues taunting. 

“An' why not?” he drawls, accent warbling and Kiyoomi swears Atsumu's face has the most _punchable_ expression right around now.

_Why not,_ he asks, and oh, there are _so many_ reasons that Kiyoomi can name. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that literally nobody in their right minds would ever dare call him that, not even Motoya, not even his own siblings. And here was this jerk, who rolls with it, stakes a claim on such a unique nickname, utters it like almost like a _pet name._

And try as he might, he can’t get rid of how it sounds in his head — he can hear it in Miya Atsumu’s voice, Miya Atsumu’s accent, Miya Atsumu alone, yelling it across the court as he sends out a perfect set despite his messed up form. It ticks him off, heats his face up, makes his heart race, and _yes, he absolutely knows how this makes him sound as if he’s flustered, but he will vehemently deny the thought of being flustered over Miya fucking Atsumu._

Any and all reasons he can name from the top of his head can be taken another way by the man he’s currently holding onto, can potentially inflate his ego, and Kiyoomi weighs his choices. Finding that both were at his disadvantage, he picks the marginally less irritating one, but is still sour that there are no other choices he can consider.

He lets go. He steps back, and says nothing. And he excuses himself from Inunaki with a slight bow, all but dashes off the court and into the locker room, deciding that he was done for the day.

He hears a “Look alive, Omi-omi!” from behind him, and it takes all of his willpower to not run back and fall for Atsumu’s taunting jabs. He doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction, because letting him know that he absolutely drives _the_ Sakusa Kiyoomi up the fucking wall is just going to make that smirk of his grow an inch bigger than it already is.

_Omi-omi._

_Omi-omi._

_Omi-omi._

Kiyoomi sees himself in the bathroom mirror, sees that his cheeks and the tips of his ears are red. And even though his labored breathing had already evened out, he could still feel his heartbeat racing in his chest as if he’d run a marathon. 

He dismisses the fleeting thought that it has something to do with Atsumu giving unique nicknames to each and every member of the team and that this was the day that Kiyoomi finally, _finally_ receives his. And he has to physically wince to stop himself from thinking that, because no way in hell was Kiyoomi actually _waiting_ for that recognition. Not from _him._

_It’s irritation,_ he thinks as he shuffles into the shower stalls, deciding that the best way to forget about the whole incident and Atsumu’s smug face was a cold shower for the next twenty minutes. _Nothing more, nothing else._

* * *

“Fastidious as always,” Meian gives a throwaway compliment as Kiyoomi enters the hotel, fresh from his run. 

He dips his head in greeting, then sees the other members of the team — specifically Hinata, Bokuto, and Atsumu — looking bored out of their minds, on their phones in the hotel lounge. Meian himself is hunched over a laptop, and he hears Coach Foster conversing in a hurried, yet hushed, tone over his phone somewhere in a solitary corner of the lounge.

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, pulling his mask down from his face to speak. “I had nothing else to do,” he explains, because it’s the truth. It’s only yesterday that they’ve found out they’re stranded, and although he’s slept and stayed in the hotel room reading sports magazines, texting with Motoya, and doing his usual hand and wrist exercises, it still has him bored — to the point that he wakes up before the sun rises, goes out to run laps in a park fifteen minutes away. It’s only 8 in the morning and he’s already thinking what else he can do, dreading the rest of the day would pass by without him noticing or doing anything of importance.

Meian nods in understanding — _tired_ understanding. “I wish I could say the same for myself, but I'm glad to see you try to make good use of your time.”

“ _Omiiiiii,_ ” comes a whine from a couch, and he sees Atsumu, with his face nearly upside-down, as he cranes his neck over the top of the couch he’s occupied to look at Kiyoomi. “I’m _bored._ ”

He gives him a once-over in the hopes that it conveys the message of, _Okay, and?_

But Atsumu doesn’t notice. Or if he did, he doesn’t let it affect him, and continues to look at him as though he could magically pull modes of entertainment from thin air. Kiyoomi sighs. “Keep yourself busy. There’s much to do around here if you look hard enough.”

“You can always go sight-seeing. We’re heading out to do just that as we speak,” Inunaki says, inviting himself into the conversation as if he just hadn’t walked out of the elevator. He’s wearing light-washed jeans and a crisp button-down with a denim jacket, and he’s holding hands with Tomas, whose outfit reminds Kiyoomi of a motorbike enthusiast, all-black and topped with a leather jacket. 

“We can?” Hinata chirps excitedly from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch that is impossibly big. Although he isn’t as ’shrimpy’ as he was back in high school and had toned up in his time training in Brazil, he still looked dwarfed by the piece of furniture. He looks from Inunaki, to Tomas, to Meian, as if looking for confirmation.

Their team captain makes a ‘meh’ face, gives a half-shrug. “Well, technically, yes. We’re not able to secure the gym courts we’ve used in the past two weeks since the women’s teams are using them right now. The best you can do is either maximize the usage of the facilities in this hotel, or you can go out. It’s technically three days worth of free time,” he adds. “Not a lot of opportunities like that the closer the start of the season gets.”

_That_ seems to take hold of Atsumu’s attention, and he rouses from his twisted form on his own couch to stare at Meian, as well. “So,” he articulates slowly, as though second-guessing himself. “You mean ta say we can do anythin’.”

“Within bounds,” Meian warns.

“Within bounds,” Atsumu repeats, although his hand dismisses the gravity of his captain’s underlying threats. “But technically, _technically —_ we can go in and out and around in these three days?”

“Just as long as you keep us posted.”

“‘Course, ‘course.” And here he beams, all too bright and all too sudden that Kiyoomi feels his chest contract at the very sight of it. 

_It’s shock,_ he thinks, _Pure shock. Nothing more, nothing else._

Atsumu and Hinata share a knowing glance, one where their eyes glint in excitement as if their brainwaves had suddenly coalesced, converging into a singularity, if only for a moment. But a moment is really the only thing they ever need. 

' _Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’_

_‘You betcha.’_

He already should have expected this, should have anticipated that these two would be up to something. And although there’s a telltale S _omething-with-a-capital-S_ that rears its ugly head within his chest and stomach at the very sight of Atsumu and Hinata sharing a moment, he doesn’t give it a name. It isn’t _his_ moment to name, anyway, nor was he in any place to _name_ things and people and their relationships between each other, and he was _definitely_ trying to avoid acknowledging the fact that it irks him. 

But what Kiyoomi doesn’t expect is that, in whatever ploy riddled mischief Atsumu and Hinata had planned via a psychic link of sorts, he’s actually accounted for.

“Omiiii~” Atsumu calls to him, voice high and warbling, getting closer. He turns around just in time to see Atsumu’s outstretched arm as if to physically stop him in his tracks, and Kiyoomi flinches away on instinct, dodges, and nearly rams his shoulder against the wall. It fazes the setter for only a millisecond before his smile is sure again.

Kiyoomi sighs into his mask and levels him with a glare. “What.”

“Listen: I’m thinking — road trip, just for the day,” the other says, with a tone not unlike those sneaky conmen whose lifelong ambitions were to weasel your life savings into a shady investment deal. Kiyoomi does a gesture as if to tell Atsumu to keep going on his sales pitch. The seconds stretch, and he realizes that he’s already done with whatever spiel he’s done, if that could even be called a spiel. _Quite the marketing approach._

“…Right,” he says, turning back to the elevators. “Have fun.”

“Oh, _come on,_ Omi,” And there it is, Atsumu’s hand is on his shoulder, and it feels as hot as a branding iron. He shakes him off quickly, eyes wide in shock, because even if Atsumu had touched him through his dri-fit shirt and his light jacket, it still stings, Kiyoomi feels the shape of his hand leaving a mental imprint. And even though he knows it’s not possible, he has the compulsion to check whether it really had left a mark.

Atsumu retreats for a second. “Sorry,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet. 

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Just ask Bokuto.”

“He already wants in!”

“You haven’t even asked him yet.”

Atsumu makes a vague gesture with his hands. “He _always_ wants in.”

Okay, he has a point. Kiyoomi backpedals, tries a different tactic. “I’m busy.”

And here, the setter scoffs. “Doin’ what?”

He’s not backing down from this. “Doing everything else that has nothing to do with a road trip. Like body conditioning. I don’t want to spend three days doing absolutely nothing. We’ve got games to play — “

“ — and games to win, yeah, yeah,” Atsumu finishes for him. “How 'bout we go to the beach, then, hm? Play some volleyball on the damn sand, have our asses handed to us by Shoyo-kun?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know whether the hint of affection in Atsumu’s voice when Hinata’s name rolls down his tongue is imagined, but it makes him push air through his nose a little forcefully. “Good luck trying to do that.”

“Oho,” Atsumu grins. “So you’re saying even _the_ Sakusa Kiyoomi can’t handle Hinata Shoyo?”

Now _that_ strikes a chord deep within him, and Kiyoomi whirls around and sends a devastating glare Atsumu’s way. The blonde has the gall to keep a shit-eating grin on his face, and he wants nothing else in that exact moment than to wipe it off and watch it in slow motion. 

But he digs his nails into his palms, tries to control himself. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

Atsumu tilts his head, feigning innocence. _Prick._ “I’m not sure what ya mean, Omi-kun.”

“You’re trying to rile me up,” he points it out, lays all the facts. “And you’re trying to make me come with you on this stupid road trip to the beach to prove you wrong.”

The setter just does a half-shrug, arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe,” he says, smirking. “Is it workin’?"

_Oh, you absolute prick,_ Kiyoomi thinks with a vengeance, because Atsumu knows, he _knows_ what the answer to that is.

“...I’ll be ready in forty-five minutes.”

“Make it twenty.”

“Screw you.”

“Wouldn’t ya like that, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi steps into the elevator and pointedly ignores him in lieu of an answer.

* * *

Exactly four months ago, Miya Atsumu learns that Sakusa Kiyoomi is a quiet but proud bastard, especially when it comes to athletic skill. And ever since, he’s made sure to keep prodding at that spot, like waving a stick in front of a bear, a red flag to a raging bull.

He saunters into the common room in the dormitory complex for the Jackals athletes, fresh from showering after a long day of training. And like always, he hones in on Kiyoomi who’s sitting on one of the lone couches in front of the large flatscreen TV. He's hunched over his phone, and even though half his face is obscured by the mask, there’s a knot between his eyebrows still visible.

“Watcha doin’?” Atsumu asks, inviting himself into Kiyoomi’s personal space and looking over his shoulder.

Even then, he’s been acutely aware of his presence every time the setter was around him. Even then he has no idea _why._

He presses a button to lock the screen of his phone before he sniffs out any information, but Kiyoomi wasn’t fast enough, and Atsumu’s quick eyes scan half the screen and the photograph of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s unsmiling, deadpan face before it goes black. “Ahaaaa, readin’ about the enemy?” he teases.

Kiyoomi bristles. He doesn’t like Atsumu’s tone and what it implies. “Wakatoshi-kun isn’t the enemy,” he corrects. “And I’m only reading a new article about him.” 

“Oh, of _course,_ ” Atsumu taunts, and he takes up the seat right across Kiyoomi, showing no signs of letting up the conversation any time soon. “So what did the press say about dear ol’ _‘Wakatoshi-kun’?”_

Kiyoomi furrows his brows for a moment at Atsumu’s heavy inflection and emphasis on Ushijima’s name, but chooses to ignore it. “He’s being called the absolute cannon of the Adlers,” he says, pocketing his phone. “And how there are high hopes and expectations for him next season. That’s all.”

Atsumu makes a face, then stretches a little. He’s wearing the standard black sweatshirt over some grey sweatpants, and a sliver of skin is exposed on his stomach. Kiyoomi looks away.

“Well, I guess it’s true,” Atsumu muses after stretching his muscles, hands behind his head and eyes to the ceiling. “Last time we played against ‘im, his serves were _wicked_ sharp. I couldn’t bump then even if I tried. And trust me, I _tried,_ ” he huffs. “That Ushiwaka is just too damn good. Don’ think there’s anyone in the league like ‘im.”

There’s a pause between them before Kiyoomi answers. “...It’s all in the spin.”

“Hm?”

“The trick is in the spin.” Kiyoomi shrugs. “That’s all there is to it.” 

Atsumu grimaces. “I know that! But knowin’ it is _way_ different from doing anything about it!”

“So do something about it,” the curly-haired one deadpans, rolling his eyes.

“Ya think I don’t want to?” The setter just groans and flops against the chair. “Maaaan, I wish I could practice with someone like that.”

Kiyoomi mumbles something. Atsumu doesn’t hear it, and he makes a little ‘huh?’ before he says it again. “You could practice digging with me,” he says louder, not meeting the setter’s eyes.

Atsumu just pulls another face. “Yeah, but you’re not Ushiwaka.”

Against his better judgment, Kiyoomi rears his head, taking offense. “Ha?” he threatens, because it was one thing to be compared to Ushijima, and it was another issue entirely to be offhandedly dismissed so easily, especially by one of his teammates.

“What?” he asks, raising his head and sending a questioning look at the man glowering right across him. “If I wanna bump his spikes and serves, I gotta at least be able to train with him. Southpaws really are sum’n…”

Kiyoomi just scoffs and crosses his arms against his chest. “It’s only the spin,” Kiyoomi grumbles against his mask, and he might be looking like he’s sulking now but he _swears_ that he isn’t. “I could…”

“You could — what?” And there’s a grin that’s slowly spreading on Atsumu’s face as he finally catches on to the heart of the sudden hostility. “Omi-omi, are you jealous?”

“No,” Kiyoomi says, way too sharp to be nonchalant. “And stop calling me that.”

Atsumu, as always, ignores his demands. “You’re jealous!” He repeats, like a giddy grade-school bully who’s found out an interesting thing to tease him mercilessly with. He crumples over, elbows on his knees as he gives his full attention to Kiyoomi now. “Oh my God, ya totally are!"

He feels his face grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, and he turns away to try and avoid it as best as he can. “Will you quit that? I said I’m not.”

“Ya are.”

“I’m not playing this game with you, Miya.”

“Oh, ya totally are,” Atsumu drawls.

It only takes a split-second for Kiyoomi to lose his control. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

"Are too~"

“This is childish. _You’re_ childish,” Kiyoomi huffs and stands up, deeming it already high time to leave. He feels his blood boil and his stomach clench at the thought of Miya Atsumu wanting to practice more with Ushijima more than him. “I’m leaving.”

“Sure, sure, whatever,” Atsumu says, making light of the situation and waving him off with a relaxed hand. But before Kiyoomi could fully step out, he calls out one last time. “Hey.”

“What,” he snaps, throwing a glower over his shoulder. It doesn’t sound like a question.

Atsumu has his legs crossed and the remote in his hands, already surfing the television channels for something to watch. Bastard wasn’t even looking at him. “If you’re so jealous about me wantin' to practice with Ushiwaka, just show me how good ya really are,” he says, as casually as if he were talking about the damn weather.

Kiyoomi snorts. “I don’t need to prove anything, especially not to _you._ ”

“Not even if I throw in an offer of setting to ya ever-so-beautifully?”

“Keep your bribes, I don’t need them,” were his parting words before he retires to his room for the night.

The next morning, during training, Kiyoomi feels light on his feet, and his muscles and reflexes responding better than usual. He reads the attacks, tools the blocks, does what he usually does best. His mind and vision are clear, and all he can think about are the exercises, the drills, the game. He’s in the zone, and it’s invigorating. 

“Omi!” Atsumu yells from across the court, squatting down and almost bending fully backward to send a high toss to him, how, he knows, Kiyoomi likes it. 

He sees two blockers from the team’s second-string tighten up in preparation for defense. But Kiyoomi knows, from the spring in his jump to the roll of his shoulders, the resounding smack of his hand against the ball and the way it ricochets off the floor and against the wall, that they never really stood a chance against him.

Atsumu and the others in his team whoop in cheer. Kiyoomi doesn’t join in, of course, but he clenches his fist in victory as the set is deemed finished and the whistle blows. Belatedly, he turns around to look for the setter, and he sees Atsumu already looking at him. The smirk on his face from yesterday had been wiped off, replaced with open awe.

Kiyoomi can’t help but preen a little, and he sends a small smirk towards him before heading off to get his drink. _How d’you like me now?_ he thinks, and it’s with some level of satisfaction that he commits Atsumu’s expression to memory. _It’s just satisfying to see him speechless for once. Nothing more, nothing else._

* * *

It’s only been twenty minutes into the long drive to the beach, but Kiyoomi already feels like he’s reaching the breaking point, if he hadn’t surpassed it already.

He’s currently trying to huddle inwards, knees folded almost to his chest in the passenger seat to try and avoid Bokuto’s lively thumping against the back of his seat, as _Wouldn’t It Be Nice_ by The Beach Boys plays through the car stereo. It’s Hinata’s phone that’s hooked up to the radio, and it’s a devil’s pell-mell mix of Japanese songs, old English songs, and lively Latino music that has Hinata hollering along at the top of his lungs. Bokuto is easily infected by lively energy, rides the wave, and amplifies it two or even three times over.

Kiyoomi thanks his foresight to claim shotgun before anyone else could. He can’t imagine how sitting in the backseat with either of them must be like, or how he’d endure any more minutes without any prospects of possible murder.

It’s Atsumu who is relegated to driving, because he says it’s his idea in the first place. There were no qualms about it, because Hinata’s yet to receive his driving license, nobody trusted Bokuto behind the wheel (which earns a hurt exclamation from the spiker), and Kiyoomi outright refuses to even be considered to drive, because just thinking about the number of people that had sat in the same driver's seat makes him physically shudder.

And even though he’s humming along to the jovial song, Atsumu’s hands are steady on the steering wheel. His finger taps a steady rhythm along with the song, which he doesn’t know the lyrics to but seem to recognize. It’s vague and familiar to Kiyoomi, but he never really was the type to listen to music outside of exercising, and even then he’s more focused on counting the reps in his head rather than actively hearing the sounds coming through his earphones. 

Kiyoomi sighs and looks out the window when Bokuto finally mellows down and stops abusing the poor car seat. He drowns his conversation with Hinata out of his mind as he looks out the window, noting the scenery passing by. It’s a beautiful, sunny, summer day, and the sky is clear save for a few tufts of white clouds overhead. The busy buildings of Sapporo are still visible around them, rising ominously and reaching the skies. But as Atsumu drove further away from the heart of the city from where their hotel was, the surroundings became lusher, greener, less populated, more residential. 

“Tsum-tsum!” Bokuto’s voice comes out of nowhere, without warning or preemption, as the spiker leans forward, head in between Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “Is it far, where we’re going? I’m kind of hungry…”

“Me too!” Hinata chirps in as an aside, trying to peek over Bokuto’s hunched form to gauge the reaction of both persons in the front seats of the car. “I wanna eat some grilled squid!”

“How are both of you hungry already? Didn’t you just have breakfast an hour before?” Kiyoomi asks, genuinely bewildered, as he ogles the both of them over his shoulder. He doesn’t know how to react when he sees both Hinata and Bokuto look at him blankly, as though being hungry was a given.

“Yeah, but that’s breakfast, Omi-san,” Hinata muses, matter-of-factly.

“We’re talking about lunch now, Omi,” Bokuto adds, as though Kiyoomi questioning their never-ending appetite was like saying the sky was red.

Kiyoomi breathes in sharply through his mask and internally breezes through the counts of one to three. “Unbelievable. You both are unbelievable,” he mumbles under his breath.

He doesn’t know what he’s annoyed at, but the only thought that’s currently running in his mind is how irritated he feels that his nickname from Hinata and Bokuto both have taken from the nickname that only Atsumu was supposed to call him by. A gross appropriation of sorts, if he could even call it that. 

But then the logical part of his brain snaps back: _What about it?_

He has to internally scramble for an answer. _Having Atsumu’s nickname to me used by other people just… gives them the power to do so liberally. Nothing more, nothing else,_ he thinks, but even upon hearing it himself, it sounds weak for an excuse.

“Just settle back down there, alright?” Atsumu replies to them, throwing a friendly wink from the rearview mirror that Kiyoomi thinks is not at all innocent and even downright conspiratory, if he could even call it that. “We’ll be there by lunchtime. Plenty o’ bars and restaurants since it’s a pretty popular stretch.”

When both Hinata and Bokuto retreat with excited little noises, they carry on their conversation from earlier as though a break never happened. Kiyoomi releases a sigh, a breath that he hadn’t noticed he had been holding. He settles on another position in his seat in a ploy to be more comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he can get on the passenger’s seat of a rental.

Atsumu notices, because of course he does. “You good over there, Omi?” he asks, in one of those rare moments where his voice isn’t as modulated and as loud as it usually is. He gives a side-long glance at the man, both hands still on the wheel, but his fingers had stopped tapping to the beat of the song playing on the radio.

Kiyoomi doesn’t really want to talk. “I’ll be fine. Just watch the road.”

“I have two eyes, Omi-omi.”

_There it is, there’s that nickname again._ “Have both of them on the road,” he deadpans. 

Atsumu laughs, light and bright and tinkling as the sunlight creating mirages on the long and wide expanse of the road ahead of them. “Alright, alright. Was jus’ checkin’ on ya, jeez, Omi~ Prickly as always.”

“How long ’til we get there?” He asks, completely averting the subject to something more practical, logistical. “So I know just how long I have to endure being in this car before I’m free.”

And at this point, the setter pauses, stills in his seat. It’s only for a microsecond, but Kiyoomi is perceptive to a degree, and reads it as a sign that something’s amiss. “What?” he prompts.

“Actually, uhm…” Atsumu has a sheepish smile on his face, and his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his head. “Can ya help me get the directions on the GPS?”

By the way he flinches even before Kiyoomi opens his mouth, he knows he’s already royally screwed up. “You mean we’ve been driving for nearly half an hour without knowing where we’re _actually_ going?!”

“Oi! I totally know where we’re going!” The setter rears up in his own defense, puffing his chest and cheeks out. “We’re going to Muroran! And Itanki Beach!”

“But are we going in the right direction?!”

Atsumu is quiet; he doesn’t know the answer to that question, and both he and the man in the passenger seat _know_ that he doesn’t. Kiyoomi pinches the bridge of his nose, physically jolting him back from the urge to murder the team’s starting setter right there and then. 

And by the sudden hush in the whole car, it seems as though the Energy Duo situated in the backseat had also overheard. “Are we lost?” Bokuto asks.

“Well be alright!” Atsumu all but yells, plastering a wide smile on his face, then turns to Kiyoomi. “Omi-kun’ll help us out. Right?”

Kiyoomi levels him with a frosty look in response.

The corners of Atsumu’s smile falter ever-so-slightly, but it keeps holding on. “ _Right?_ ” he emphasizes, eyes widening just a fraction to hit home a hidden message.

_Help me._

Kiyoomi would normally scoff and have Atsumu deal with the mess he’s gotten into, but after some quick thinking, he decides that helping him would be beneficial to him too at the end of the day. For one, he could at least avoid the very real, very horrifying possibility of being lost in the middle of nowhere with the likes of him, Bokuto, and Hinata. 

The thought alone exhausted him to the bone. So he gives in.“...You’re hopeless."

And with great effort, he leans forward and inputs the name of the beach and the city on the GPS in the dashboard. But Kiyoomi isn’t above throwing a glare over the driver’s way when the GPS loudly announces to take the next U-turn, because — as it turns out, and not to Kiyoomi’s surprise — they had wasted half an hour driving in the entirely wrong direction.

“Oops,” Atsumu says, with as much feeling as drywall.

“Remind me never to be stuck with you in an apocalypse-type situation,” Kiyoomi scoffs and leans back against the seat, patting his jacket pockets for the little disinfectant spray he has on him at all times — just in case. 

Atsumu places one hand on his chest and puts on an expression of exaggerated pain. “Ya wound me, Omi-kun!” he exclaims in mock hurt. 

Kiyoomi sprays his hands liberally with the sanitizing spray, rolling his eyes in the process. “Dramatic, too.”

“Okay, I’ll give ya that.” Atsumu laughs once more, arms working to turn their car around in the nearest U-turn slot. “But isn’t this fun?”

“I would be highly concerned at your definition of fun if it weren’t for the fact that I do not give a single fuck,” he fires back without preamble.

This time, Atsumu’s laugh rings louder beside him. And not for the first time, Kiyoomi is thankful his mask hides the small smile he’s incapable of hiding when he hears it. 

“But don’t ya see?” the setter says, leaning forward and gesturing to the road again with his hands. “We get ta drive through an' see the city a second time. Loosen up, Omi-omi. Step back and enjoy the flowers, eh? Half the fun’s in the journey, after all…~”

Kiyoomi doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he chooses not to speak, favoring instead to watch the road.

* * *

Exactly three months ago, Kiyoomi watches Atsumu fail perhaps his hundredth serve of the day during individual practice.

The setter swears at the top of his lungs as his hybrid serve ends outside the paint again, and Kiyoomi could see the anger, the frustration rising up from his body like a dark miasma. His face and practice shirt is drenched in sweat, and his breathing is labored. Atsumu paces around in a tight circle, shaking his head and wiping the perspiration off his brow with his arm. 

“This _sucks,”_ he yells to the floor, to his shoes, to himself. “I _suck!”_

Kiyoomi had been watching him fail for almost an hour already, and that timer had started only after he got out of the bath and re-entered the gym, wondering if anyone was still practicing since the lights were still on. He’s only half-surprised that it isn’t Hinata and Bokuto who he sees on the court, but Atsumu, who hadn’t been performing his best for the past few days. Finding nothing better to do for the rest of the night, he quietly and carefully watches as he’s seated on a bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Atsumu has three serves that he wants to master, and he practices each of them in rotation. 

The problem is that he fails every single one — it’s either too soft, too hard, too straight, too uncontrolled, and most times it’s an out. With each mistake and each falter, Atsumu gets increasingly aggravated, and he starts swearing more and more. The knot on his brow isn’t there out of frustration anymore, but of anger, and his eyes are squinted dangerously at each and every spot on the opposite side of the net that he targets which the ball readily misses. 

When he hears Atsumu yell angrily, voice bouncing off the walls of the gym, Kiyoomi finally speaks up. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks hotly, and Atsumu’s head whips around to glare at him. He represses a shiver that threatens to run down his spine, because he hasn’t seen that look from the setter ever since their high school days during Nationals. 

“Omi, I suck,” Atsumu repeats.

Kiyoomi tamps down the urge to agree, seeing the slight slump on Atsumu’s shoulders. But he doesn’t have the capacity to compliment him (or he does, but he refuses to use it for some unknown reason). He rephrases the question entirely. “What’s wrong with your old serves that you have to improve them all at once? We’re a few months away from the season starts. Aren’t you cutting it a little close?”

“But that’s the thing!” Atsumu shouts, groaning in frustration as he throws his head back. “Season’s starting _real_ soon! I gotta do this, I gotta get better!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s _cool!_ ”

“That’s not a reason,” Kiyoomi scoffs.

Atsumu scoffs right back. “Yeah, it is. ’S mine.”

“That’s a stupid reason,” he snaps.

The setter rolls his eyes and picks up another ball, then walks to the edge of the court in a serving position. “Say whatever ya want, Omi, but I’ll make ya cheer for me once I finally get all of ‘em right.”

“Fat chance,” Kiyoomi replies.

But he starts to think, as Atsumu starts the cycle again of trying, and failing, and trying again. Because all this time, Kiyoomi never really saw him as someone who was too much of a perfectionist. Sure, he’s seen him go head-to-head with the likes of Kageyama Tobio back in their All-Japan Youth Intensive Training camp in his second year and butt heads with every other player because of his abrasive behavior. Miya Atsumu was easily misunderstood because he had such high standards, and held everyone harshly against them.

Kiyoomi never expected that he’d do the same to himself. Or how he’d be so much stricter. 

Because Atsumu’s drawling voice and the lopsided smirk he almost-perpetually has on his face gave him a lackadaisical air. Seeing him in training camp and being teammates with him gave Kiyoomi enough evidence that he was as hardworking as anybody else, but to push himself to the extremes with such a simple, basic reason as the serves looking ‘cool’ fills Kiyoomi with begrudging awe.

So he stays, and watches. It’s probably another forty minutes before Kiyoomi is starting to worry about how much Atsumu is sweating, how little he’s been drinking. It takes longer for him to serve after failing to hit one inbound, and sometimes he has to take a minute-long break just to catch his breath. 

“Stop this,” Kiyoomi tells him, because although he’s the type of athlete to practice relentlessly and see things through from start to finish, he also knows the signs the body gives when it’s nearing its limit, when pushed too much with physical exertion. Miya Atsumu was teetering on the edge, yet the man still stubbornly stands on his own two legs — out of spite, out of pride.

Atsumu doesn’t listen to him and just takes his place once again to serve. Kiyoomi stands up, strides over to him. If he has to drag a sweaty athlete screaming bloody murder in Kansai-ben away from the gym then so be it; better than heavy deadweight, anyway. “Miya,” he threatens.

“Jus' one more,” Atsumu pleads, and Kiyoomi stops in his tracks. His voice is soft, and a little rough around the edges, hoarse perhaps because of dehydration. Kiyoomi’s about to dismiss him when Atsumu looks at him in the eyes, and there’s still a fire burning in them. “Jus' one. Last one for the night, Omi. I _almost_ got it.”

“You’ve been saying you ‘almost got it’ for the past twenty minutes,” he points out, but Atsumu doesn’t relent. They’re at a non-verbal impasse, just the two of them staring at each other for a full minute before Kiyoomi resigns. “Fine. _Fine._ But if you pass out on your feet, you’re spending it in the gym. Don’t expect me to carry you back to the dorms.”

“I’m moved by such levels of compassion, Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawls, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him. He side-steps out of the court to give him more space to operate, and watches Atsumu roll his shoulders, breathe in slowly, try to center his focus on the spot he plans to target.

Kiyoomi feels like he watches the next scenes in slow motion. Atsumu steps forward, bends his knees, throws the ball up, jumps, hits it at the perfect angle. Both of them watch as the ball arcs gracefully over the net, then curve sharply downwards, landing perfectly _on the lines._

_An in_.

Atsumu yells at the top of his lungs triumphantly, his shout of victory bouncing off the walls of the gym, and Kiyoomi finds himself smiling despite himself. His hand is clenched beside him in quiet cheering, as well. 

_It’s pride,_ he says, and Atsumu whirls around to him, the biggest grin on his face, and the sight of it fills Kiyoomi’s chest with warmth. _Nothing more, nothing else._

* * *

Kiyoomi grimaces as they finish drawing lots. “Do I have to play?”

“We can’t do beach doubles if there're only three people, Omi-san!” Hinata points out. They can all hear the excitement in his voice, and they could all probably see him grinning from ear to ear were it not for the fact that he’s already eagerly stripping off his shirt, which is around his ears when he speaks.

_Point taken,_ he thinks, but he sees his own strip of paper, the matching pair in between Atsumu’s fingers. “But still,” he says, a small whine. Like a child.

“It’ll be fine, Omi-omi~” Atsumu reassures him, grinning wickedly at the sight of Bokuto, who had already asked a complete stranger for help in setting up the net between two goal-posts buried deep in the sand.

They had arrived at the beach two hours ago, exactly around noon, and had piled into a seafood restaurant right away. Bokuto and Hinata, of course, had ordered nearly everything on the menu out of hunger, and Atsumu just let him. He’s taken pictures of all of them having a grand old time, posts them on his social media handles, sends them to team group chat to inform everyone about where they were, and how they’re going. Tomas and Inunaki send a photo of the both of them enjoying ice cream while they stroll around the city. 

> **Sunshoyo:** [sent an image]
> 
>  **Sunshoyo:** LOOK AT THIS PILLAR OF FRIED SQUID!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  **Bokkun:** IT’S AS BIG AS MY FACE, LOOK, LOOK!
> 
>  **Wan-san:** You boys look like you’re having fun! 😄 
> 
> **Tsumu The Great:** we are~
> 
>  **Tsumu The Great: '** cept for omi omi~
> 
>  **Tsumu The Great:** [sent an image]
> 
>  **Sakiyo:** Delete that.
> 
>  **Tsumu The Great:** no ❤️ 
> 
> **Sakiyo:** Fuck off, then.
> 
>  **Tsumu The Great:** yeah i figured thats what you meant with the middle finger over your face 😛 
> 
> **Sakiyo:** Look over here and I’ll show it to you again.
> 
>  **Tsumu The Great:** how kind 🙂
> 
> **Tomas: 👍**

After they’ve eaten their fill, they asked around for a shop to rent beach umbrellas and towels. Well, Atsumu, Bokuto, and Hinata did. Kiyoomi had all but volunteered to keep still and watch over their belongings. He didn’t mind waiting all alone; in fact, he preferred this. No overbearing sun to beat down on his skin, no itchy sand that gets into any and all annoying corners of his body, no filthy seawater. He could very much enjoy the ocean from a safe distance away, so he does, and spends a few minutes just serenely watching the waves crash onto the shore, white foam churning as the tides ebb and flow.

But as soon as they come back, arms laden with towels and beach umbrellas, Kiyoomi notices that Hinata had also procured a beach volleyball, and there was a wicked grin on his face. 

It doesn’t take much for them to lure Kiyoomi out from the shade to play beach volleyball, which would be surprising to anyone who knows him, if it weren’t for the fact that Atsumu threatens to go back into the car with sand in the pockets of his beach shorts, promising to spill it all over the front seats. He’s out of the shade in fifteen seconds, regretting it instantly as he feels the heat of the midday sun warming up his face.

Hinata prattles the rules like a never-ending train of thought, already in the middle of stretching. His tanned skin had already lightened compared to when he had just come back from Brazil, but the tan lines were still there, still visible in some spots more than others. It cuts sharply down behind his shoulder blades and back, which were now being stretched taut as he gets ready to go. Bokuto himself is already shedding his shirt, preferring not to have a button-down while playing, and he flexes his arm and back muscles, rolling his shoulders to loosen them.

Atsumu grins as they take their place on either side of the net. “Don’ look so worried, Omi~” he says, eyes trained forward as they watch Hinata prepare for the serve, doing the small habitual ritual he does to shake the sand off of the ball. “Ya got me.”

Kiyoomi just rolls his eyes at that, then crouches down to receive. “That worries me even more.”

“Hey —“

“Shush.” 

And so it begins.

There isn’t much wind and the sun isn’t as glaring, but it still gives them a rush on how to properly receive the ball. The sand gives, is unforgiving, and Kiyoomi stumbles forward when Hinata sends it the ball to him. Atsumu rushes forward to get the ball high, and Kiyoomi notes that he has to push at the balls of his feet harder to get to the height he wanted. He tips it over the net, grins as Bokuto scrambles for a save, but the smile doesn’t last long as it’s sent flying overhead.

The rally to the first point is long, longer than they anticipated. Hinata is on a league of his own with his feet on sand, and although Atsumu is a relative beginner to beach volleyball, he tweaks his performance on the go and gains better footing every time. Bokuto and Kiyoomi are equally matched when it comes to spiking power, and Kiyoomi discovers that he likes making Bokuto run to the other side of the court just so the ball won’t land, much to the other’s chagrin.

But the downside was that Kiyoomi underestimated the sand, and while trying to receive a ball with one arm, he fumbles and rolls on the sand. Atsumu doesn’t see that he’s down, eyes trained specifically on the ball, and only when he completes the high-arcing set does he realize. “Omi!” he shouts, frantic.

Kiyoomi tries to finish the 3-part attack but misses the ideal impact point, and the ball is met by the net, falls on their side of the court. Hinata and Bokuto both whoop and cheer, and it’s only when they hear clapping and cheering do they realize that a small crowd had gathered around the shade, watching them play. Bokuto’s signature “hey, hey, hey~” and Hinata’s enthusiastic clapping riles the crowd up, their magnetic energy easily winning them over. 

Atsumu hurries over to where Kiyoomi is. “You good, Omi?” He asks, concern all over his face. 

He glares at him and shakes the sand off his arms and shoulders. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he throws a question in return.

The setter makes a grimace. “Well, I mean, ya took a fall.”

“It’s sand,” he dismisses. “I’m fine.”

“Oy!” Bokuto yells from across the court, hands cupped over his mouth to amplify his already loud voice. “You guys ready yet?!”

Atsumu’s about to yell back to give them a few minutes, but Kiyoomi stops him. Instead, he holds up a finger, signaling to wait for one second, before he takes out a small black elastic from a small pocket in his shorts. His fingers make quick work as he ties his bangs away from his face, because the wind and the sand were getting everywhere, and his hair was getting in the way of him seeing the court clearly with the sun’s glare overhead. 

Kiyoomi turns to Atsumu, who’s face and mouth are slack with shock, openly staring at Kiyoomi. “What?” he asks, only a smidge of annoyance in his tone. He doesn’t know whether to feel self-conscious or not.

“I’ve… no, it’s nothin’, just…” Atsumu trails off, gesturing vaguely and flimsily with both hands in front of him. 

Kiyoomi shakes his head, decides that whatever he has on his mind can wait. Because Bokuto and Hinata have turned to working up the crowd again to try and taunt them back to playing. The wicked grins on their faces are fuelling his competitive streak, and he desperately wants to wipe it off their faces, before sending a similar, challenging smirk down their way. 

He side-steps Atsumu easily and gets back into position. When the setter jogs to catch up to him and crouches defensively in anticipation, Kiyoomi subconsciously reaches over, arm outstretched, and palm facing outwards. The blonde doesn’t say or do anything, and Kiyoomi is hyperaware, from the corner of his eye, that he’s staring at him.

True enough, one fleeting glance confirms it — Atsumu is ogling at him, eyes as wide as dinner plates, flicking from Kiyoomi’s face, down to his waiting palm, and then back up again. “Omi — ?”

“We’ll get the next one,” he says, then prompts him again, waving his hand to bring his attention back to it. Kiyoomi determinedly stares ahead, because he thinks he can’t say these words so casually if he was staring at him face-to-face. “Let’s get them back, see if they want a taste of their own medicine.”

It only takes two seconds for Atsumu to recover. “Right!” He exclaims, reaching over, and clapping encouragingly against Kiyoomi’s open palm before readying to defend as well.

Bokuto serves, and Kiyoomi is extremely mindful of his body now. How his feet give in the sand, how hot the sun feels on his shoulders, how warm his hand feels where Atsumu had touched him.

"Omi!" Atsumu yells out of habit, because there's really no need to call out a toss since there are only two people on either side of the net. Yet Kiyoomi feels a little giddiness everytime he hears his name fall out of the setter's lips so easily.

He sends the ball straight down, gains a point, for their team. He hears Bokuto and Hinata’s frustrations, and, in the heat of the moment, he turns to Atsumu and gives him a wicked smile. And as the game continues, with every bump and spike and pass, Kiyoomi’s palm burns as if branded by Atsumu’s touch. 

He attributes it to the sand. Or to the sun. Or to the familiar sting of his palm after a particularly powerful spike.

_Nothing more,_ he tells himself, clenching the hand in question. _Nothing else._

* * *

Exactly two months ago, Kiyoomi lets his competitive side run wild, and the team finds out that this overrides his sensitivity to touch but only in the most extreme of situations.

“Next one, next one! Look alive, all of you!” Coach Foster encourages from the sidelines, clapping his hands to divert their attention back to the game at hand. Everyone takes on their respective positions, as Bokuto readies to deliver yet another wicked serve.

The team they’re playing against is the EJP Raijins, and although it’s only a practice match that the coaches had so helpfully arranged in anticipation of the looming season, everyone is playing as if they’re in an actual game. Hinata is benched, much to his silent chagrin, but it’s only because he still hasn’t debuted officially, and the MSBY heads wanted to keep him a well-kept secret until he actually has to play. So now it’s the usual members of Barnes, Inunaki, Tomas, Kiyoomi, Atsumu, and Bokuto against the EJP Raijin regulars.

The ball arcs beautifully high and descends powerfully. Kiyoomi sees Motoya gracefully drop to save it, stopping the momentum and taking control. He sees the barest ghost of a smile on his cousin’s face across the net, finds comfort in the fact that competitiveness runs hot in their blood. Kiyoomi wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s Suna who gives them trouble, tooling Tomas’ commit block. The ball slips through, cuts through the court at the last second even when everyone thought the EJP blocker would hit a straight. 

“Wan-san!” Atsumu yells, and Inunaki dives to receive it. The ball is still alive, and it takes a split second for Kiyoomi to assess the situation on either side of the court. He sees Motoya standing too far, covering almost two-thirds of the breadth of the back row by himself. Suna is to the side, face pinched in concentration. And in front of him, Kiyoomi’s field of vision is mostly clear.

It was an easy decision to make, one that they seem to agree on at the exact same time. By the time Atsumu yells “Omi-kun!”, Kiyoomi had already begun his running start, and by the time the ball comes to him, Kiyoomi had already jumped his highest. As if in slow-motion, he sees Washio suddenly enter his line of sight, arms outstretched. But the block is completed a second too late, and Kiyoomi sends it flying through, the ball grazing the tips of the blocker’s fingers. Motoya dives to receive it, but it bounces off his arms out of control.

The whistle blows, signaling the end, just as Kiyoomi lands on his feet. He hears his team yell out a cheer, and the man looks at the players across the court. Motoya still has a smile on his face, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. _I’ll get it next time, just you watch._

Kiyoomi grins back, with just a smidge of well-earned braggadocio, because they had won. _He_ had won. And he wanted to take this feeling in his chest, bottle it up, name it ambrosia. He feels drunk off this feeling, of the pride and joy and warmth that fills him to the brim. It was a long set of practice games, and they were fairly neck-and-neck, but to snatch a victory against a team with the likes of notable Fukurodani, Inarizaki, and fellow Itachiyama alumni gave him a kind of high he never wants to get down from.

“Omi!” It’s Atsumu, running toward him at full force. He’s just finished giving everyone high-tens and congratulatory slaps on the shoulders, as he usually does. “Omi, that last spike!”

He moves to clap Kiyoomi’s back in congratulations, and only when his hand had smacked against his shoulder did Atsumu realize what he had just done. Kiyoomi doesn’t like being touched when he’s all sweaty and exhausted and gross, especially in playful acts of camaraderie mid-game or post-game. Everybody knew in the team about his aversion to touch, had respected it, of course. 

Atsumu did, as well. But in his tired and delirious state, he’d moved without thinking, had broken an unspoken rule. Everyone knows, and everyone saw him, even the people from the other team. Quickly, he shrinks back, tries to open his mouth, apologize. “Uh, Omi, I — “

But Kiyoomi doesn’t notice, because he’s _also_ tired and delirious and giddy from that last spike. There’s sweat rolling down his face and neck, and his chest rises and falls rapidly because of labored breathing. He doesn’t think much when he feels Atsumu’s hand on his shoulder, even for the briefest of seconds, congratulating him for a job well done.

And Kiyoomi does something he’s never done before — he reaches over and claps Atsumu on the shoulder. The setter stiffens in response, looking like his brain had just short-circuited. “Good job on that last set,” he compliments quietly, then excuses himself to replenish his electrolytes with a sports drink.

Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi walks off, effectively dodging Bokuto’s enthusiastic greeting or demand for a high-five. He makes sure to navigate his way around the other players to avoid their cheesy congratulatory actions, and Atsumu can’t help but overthink at this sudden burst of _special treatment_ from the one and only Sakusa Kiyoomi. He looks from across the net and sees Motoya mirror his facial expression — excitement, incredulity, surprise. 

But what Kiyoomi doesn’t know is that one little touch from him had incapacitatesd Atsumu. He's much too tired to notice anything around him. He goes back to the bench, towel around his neck and him drinking from his bottle of water, trying to find a way to calm himself down. After a few minutes, Motoya sidles up to him, with the most innocent expression on his angelic-looking face. 

“So…” he starts to say, in a voice that is sickly sweet.

Kiyoomi just raises an eyebrow at him, because he knows Motoya longer than anyone else, better than anyone else, he supposes, and it's already second instinct that he tskes one good look at the face he's making but doesn't trust it one bit. “So what?”

“So are you planning to talk to me about your setter any time soon, Kiyoomi?”Ah, there it is — Motoya’s grin that Kiyoomi recognizes from when they still studied together. The kind of grin he gets when he has an especially hot piece of insider information that he relished.

_Well, he’s going to be sorely disappointed,_ he thinks as he takes another sip. There was no insider information to be had about Atsumu, and if there was, why is he asking him? “About Miya? No, why would I? What about him?”

Motoya raises an eyebrow in turn. “Oh, don’t act dumb.”

Kiyoomi isn’t dumb. He knows exactly what Motoya is trying to suggest. He doesn’t give him the luxury or satisfaction, though. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

His cousin huffs and crosses his arms on his chest. “Am I going to have to spell it out? Fine, then.” And he leans forward to whisper something into Kiyoomi’s ear.

The next thing that everyone hears is a very angry and irate Kiyoomi yelling at Motoya to shut up, and the latter only laughing so loudly. Both their voices echo around the gym they’ve rented for today, and everyone turns to look at them to watch what was going on. Kiyoomi looks downright murderous, and it would have looked one-hundred percent dangerous if not for the fact that the tips of his ears were burning hot and red the entire time.

_“_ We’re _teammates,_ ” he hisses to Motoya in a fervent whisper. “ _Nothing more, nothing else._ ”

The libero just sniffs and throws him an exaggerated sympathetic look. Kiyoomi resists the urge to do what he usually did when they were kids and threaten to shave off his eyebrows.

* * *

Atsumu and Kiyoomi lose to the pair of Bokuto and Hinata in two back-to-back beach volleyball games. After the second game, they all collectively got tired at the same time, and had all decided to take a short break. They’ve laid out their towels under the beach umbrella they borrowed, and had hidden from the merciless heat of the summer sun.

Bokuto whines and fans himself, eyes closed. He’s resting his head on the button-down he refuses to wear again. He’s folded it haphazardly and uses it as a pillow to at least prop his head and neck up just a little. “I want ramuné,” he complains.

Hinata, who is busy trying to liberally apply sunscreen all over his body, perks up at the sound of the drink. “I want one too!” He yelps, then looks around. “Is there anywhere we can buy some?”

“Probably there.” Atsumu rouses from where he had laid down, raising his head which had been pillowed by his hands for a full ten minutes. He points to the beachside restaurant and bar they had just eaten from hours prior. “I think I saw some bottles of ramuné there.” 

“I want ramuné!” Bokuto repeats himself, a little whinier this time.

“Then just go out and buy some?” Kiyoomi asks incredulously. He’s sitting dead center on his towel, conscious of the sand around him, and is hugging his knees close to his chest. No way in hell was he going to be able to relax in such a sandy environment, and he intends to try and keep himself as clean and as devoid of sand as much as humanly possible. 

“Nuh-uh, no can do.” Bokuto sits up all of a sudden, and his eyes are wide. Kiyoomi doesn’t like that look one bit. “ _You_ buy it.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the loser’s penalty for losing!” Bokuto laughs, hands on his waist as though he’s finally cracked a difficult code, and is very proud of his achievement. “You get to buy us all one ramuné each!”

“Unbelievable,” Kiyoomi says, crossing his arms across his chest, refusing to believe it. He and Atsumu had lost in both of the games they played. “And what about Miya here, hm? Are you not going to punish him, too? Or is this penalty just going to be purely selective?”

“He’s going to help me put sunscreen on my back,” Hinata says matter-of-factly, and Atsumu goes a little red in the face out of embarrassment at how frank the other man said it. “So it’s only you left to go get the ramuné, Omi-san~”

Kiyoomi whirls around at Atsumu, but the man looks sheepish. “At least it’s just ramuné,” he mumbles to him.

Hinata and Bokuto stick their tongues out at him in a playful manner, rubbing their victories over their noses some more. Kiyoomi scoffs a little into the face mask he’s wearing, but eventually accepts defeat. “Fine, fine,” he says as he stands up, brushing the sand that had clung to his shorts, and makes his way to the restaurant.

The man behind the counter was middle-aged and balding on top, but had a jovial air around him and a perpetually smiling face. When Kiyoomi asks for four ramunés, he asks another employee to check the fridge and get the bottles for him. “It’ll just take a few minutes,” he says apologetically. 

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “Take all the time you need. As long as I can wait under the shade.”

“Feel free,” the seller says, chuckling a little.

Kiyoomi’s eyes wander, catching the little details on the wall from behind the counter. Pictures of regulars, small-time celebrities that have spent a little time in the restaurant. Bottle caps and drink labels, faded bills plastered against the wall like mementos stuck in time. 

The man keeps making small talk, but Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. “You played really well out there. Everyone who was watching says so, anyway.”

“We’re actually pro athletes. On vacation, of sorts,” he says quietly, not wanting to go around and cause any media frenzy, no matter how small. It would be an additional circle of Hell for Coach Foster to deal with if that were ever to happen now. 

The seller just nods, laughing to himself, probably realizing Kiyoomi’s apprehension at the hastily tacked on disclaimer at the end of his sentence. Both their eyes gaze over at where their beach umbrellas were. It was too far to see clearly, but still close enough to recognize one form from another.

Bokuto had gone back to lying down and fanning his face, arm thrown over his eyes to protect it from the glare of the sun. Hinata was lying down on his stomach, and Atsumu was making sure to rub sunscreen all over his back. They watch them for a full minute. Maybe Atsumu had sensed that he was being watched, and he looks up. When he sees Kiyoomi watching him, he gives a cheery little wave, and a gesture to hurry up.

Kiyoomi snorts softly and rolls his eyes a little, turning his attention back to the seller, who’s scrutinizing him seriously. “Yes?” he prompts. 

“You like him.” 

The seller wasn’t even asking a question. He states it more like a fact, head nodding to the blonde with the undercut laughing obnoxiously with Hinata, tan lines all out on display. The shock factor of that sentence and delivery alone gives Kiyoomi a start so bad that the man on the other side of the wooden bar gives him an apologetic look. “I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — “ 

Kiyoomi shakes his head, dismisses the warrantless apology. Instead, he fiddles with the other ear loop of the face mask dangling on the side of his face. “Wh- No. I mean. Well.” He flounders, like a fish out of water. “I… I’m not sure. I don’t know."

“Oh.” A beat, two beats of silence, save for the distant sounds of waves crashing on the nearby shore, the white noise of conversations from other patrons in the bar blending in with one another until the words fade and mesh with each other in a cloudy haze of chitter-chatter. “I would have thought you do know. That you like him, actually.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just by the way you look at him.” 

_Shit._ Kiyoomi averts his eyes, and judging by how hot he suddenly feels his cheeks get, he’s blushing, too. He puts back the face mask to cover half of his face before replying, “That doesn’t mean anything. A look is hardly anything to base something off of.” 

But the seller at the bar definitely has this knowing twinkle in his eye, the same energy permeating from the smile on his face. The meaning wasn’t lost to Kiyoomi, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Because acknowledgment gives it power, power over his whole being, and he would rather dive headfirst into the filthy ocean than to do that.

“Oh, but it’s not just that,” the other man says, handing him the bottles of ramunés that he had been waiting for. In the middle of holding two bottles in each hand, Kiyoomi pauses, brows furrowed in anticipation for something. “It’s also the way he looks at you. That’s why I thought that.”

“How he…?” Kiyoomi looks over his shoulder once more when he hears sharp whistling. He sees Atsumu with two fingers in his mouth, aiding him to whistle, while his free arm waves wildly in the air. 

“Omi!” He yells, voice carrying over the wind and the sounds of the sea. “Omi, getcha ass back over here! Now! Stop hidin’ under the shade! Enjoy the beach like a real man!”

He sends him a glower that he hopes will carry his animosity through as he leaves the barkeep chortling to himself, but it loses intensity with every step he takes when he sees Atsumu’s smile growing wider. 

Kiyoomi feels his heart racing in his chest, and although he casts around for any other explanation, nothing really fits. Nothing except one — a possibility that he has, time and time again, overlooked and glossed over. 

_A look?_ He thinks, as he watches Atsumu open the bottle with ease, pushing the marble stopper downwards, taking a sip. _That’s all it takes to see? Nothing more? Nothing else?_

“Heyya, earth to Omi-omi,” Atsumu says, waving his hand over Kiyoomi’s face. It shakes him out of his reverie, has him focusing on the things and matters and the person at hand. “You good?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know the answer to that, or doesn’t trust his mouth and throat to work or make sounds. So he gives an imperceptible nod and drinks from his own bottle, turning his attention to the sea, losing himself in thought. 

* * *

Exactly one month ago, Kiyoomi finds himself unable to sleep because of something he can’t name.

Rarely does he ever find the need to talk to people about something so personal and so abstract as feelings. But on the rare occasion that he does, he only has one number he can always trust to call.

“So what’s this you’re fussing over?” Motoya asks, voice tinny over the loudspeaker on his phone.

Kiyoomi paces the width of his bedroom, thanks his lucky stars that they all have solitary rooms in the dormitory; this phone call wouldn’t be possible otherwise. It takes him a few more seconds and a few more paces to gather up all his wits to provide some semblance of an answer. 

“Him,” is all he says, is all Kiyoomi is able to say, because his mind and his chest is a bit of a mess and he has no idea just how he’s going to make sense of it all. Not in the moment, anyway.

Motoya knows Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi knows this very well. His cousin doesn’t need any further explanations, any clarifications on who the person they’re referring to actually is. He stays quiet for a few minutes, and Kiyoomi just keeps burning the carpet with his endless pacing.

Exactly one month ago, Motoya asks Kiyoomi over the phone: “Do you like Miya Atsumu?”

And even after the phone call has ended, even after staring at the ceiling of his own room for hours on end, even though his mind and heart races with all the possibilities, he can’t come up with a definitive answer.

_Does he?_

* * *

They start the drive back to their hotel in Sapporo after a few more hours of just lounging at the beach. 

Hinata and Bokuto are both sun-dazed in the backseat, both of them sitting on either side and just watching the scenery fly by. After some time, Bokuto’s eyes close and he dozes off after a while, still holding onto his phone surprisingly well. Hinata follows in sleep soon after, exhaustion written clearly on his face, but so was satisfaction.

And so the drive back home was quiet. Too quiet, to be honest, because Atsumu doesn’t even dare turn on the radio in case it wakes anyone. Because of the heat, the exercise, and the food, even Kiyoomi had drifted off too, feeling comfortable even when he’s pressed against the car door because of the air-conditioning blowing cool air on his face.

He doesn’t know how long he’s actually been asleep for, but he wakes when the car jolts to the side and he hears Atsumu curse a little under his breath. 

“Speed bumps,” he mumbles. Atsumu looks up and sees Kiyoomi looking blearily at him. “Hey. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Kiyoomi is still much too tired to overthink on the gentleness in Atsumu’s voice as they have a conversation. He dismissed the apology. “Just watch the road more carefully,” he says, but his tone has little to no bite.

“Wh — I am!”

“Then watch it better, now _shhh_.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes at him, but leans back on his seat anyway and enjoys the ride. Kiyoomi shifts in his seat, reckons he could go back to sleep but decides against it when he thinks about the very real possibility of an impending out-of-sync sleep schedule. 

“I liked today,” Atsumu says after nearly ten minutes of radio silence. All they ever hear is each other’s breathing. “Having a short break with just the four of us feels great.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t really have the heart to disagree, especially when, deep inside, he knows he enjoyed himself, too. But he’s not going to actually say it, oh, no. “It’d have been better if we didn’t lose,” he deadpans.

Atsumu whirls around. “Hey! I’m not the one who spiked directly onto the opponent’s open arms!”

Kiyoomi makes a soft scoffing sound. “And I’m not the one who screamed bloody murder when the ball curved mid-air because of the wind.”

“That was fucking cheating and you know it,” he growls, clenching the steering wheel in anger.

And so they continue talking as quietly as they can so as not to wake up the others in the back. It was nice, having no rhyme nor reason to talk, and they flit through topics of conversation easily — from volleyball to food to sand to sun to rituals and serves and spikes. They talk about the crowd that had cheered and jeered at both teams earlier today. They talk about their teammates, and how they reacted to the pictures of all four of them doing beach volleyball. And before they know it, they arrive at the point where they’re not able to talk about anything else but each other, a topic that they had been so unconsciously averted from.

“I’m saying yer prickly _sometimes_ ,” Atsumu sniggers, throwing Kiyoomi another side-long glance. He scrambles to add, “Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing!”

Kiyoomi gives him a bored expression. “Name one context where ‘prickly’ doesn’t have a negative connotation.”

When Atsumu racks his brains and can’t think of an appropriate answer, Kiyoomi scoffs in a teasing way. “See, Mr. Perfectionist?”

“Oy!” He squawks indignantly, and stills when he sees Bokuto shift in his seat. They both wait until the spiker settles into a more comfortable position and continue on with his sleep. “For the record, I am _not_ Mr. Perfectionist.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to remind you about the time you almost collapsed after practicing your serves for an extra two hours?”

“…Fine, point taken,” Atsumu grumbles, but his face eventually smoothens in a smile. “Who would’ve thought we’d be teammates, huh? And sometimes, it seems like we barely get along. I mean…” And here, the setter laughs to dispel any awkwardness that would no doubt hang in the air. “I think ya hated me and my guts ever since we both got signed on to the team, Omi-kun~ I mean, with good reason, but still… ”

Kiyoomi, at this point, turns back to the passenger’s side window. He leans his elbow on the armrest and rests his chin on his hand. And although his words are muffled against his palm, they're still clear enough for Atsumu to hear them. 

“I never hated you, Miya."

Six. Six months. Six months, at the very least. Six months is what it takes for Sakusa Kiyoomi to utter five words he’s absolutely, positively sure of.

The silence that follows and hangs in the air between them has Kiyoomi thanking the universe that it was already dark out, because he’s certain that his ears are pink from embarrassment. The clouds overhead had burned orange and purple as the sun had set, and know that the sun had finally disappeared from the horizon for the day, the moon and the stars come out. Kiyoomi just tries to focus on the natural beauty, and gets lost in it that he misses the little ‘Oh’ that Atsumu mumbles under his breath.

* * *

Exactly a year ago, Sakusa Kiyoomi is introduced to the rest of the MSBY Black Jackals as the newest member of the team.

He sees familiar faces like Bokuto Koutarou from Fukurodani and Miya Atsumu from Inarizaki in the ranks. And although he’s still a bit out of it on how to assimilate himself to the other members of the team, he trusts in himself that he’ll be able to do so. _One step at a time._

Atsumu is the first one to approach him after the official meeting is over and they’re the last ones straggling behind in the gym’s locker rooms.

“Sakusa,” he calls out, and Kiyoomi just raises an eyebrow at him. The setter is only half of how he remembers him back in their high school days. There’s still that underlying smugness in his demeanor, the borderline condescending draw of his mouth as he smiles. But there’s a certain maturity, too, and a certain humbling attitude (to a degree) that Kiyoomi doesn’t remember seeing on him.

“Can I help you with anything?” Kiyoomi asks, closing his locker door.

Atsumu grins, and Kiyoomi feels like he’s being shown a predator’s fangs on display. “I’m just telling this to you now — I won’t set for people who can’t hit my tosses. Plain and simple.”

And that rubs off against Kiyoomi wrong, because who does this guy think he is? His annoyance must have shown in his face, but he doesn’t care. He walks away, but without throwing this over his shoulder: 

“Then I hope you’re ready to work your ass off, Miya, because I don’t intend to spike from a half-assed set.”

“What did ya say?!”

“You heard me, loud and clear.”

* * *

They decide to take a little detour and stop at a gas station before they resume driving. According to the GPS, they still have about thirty minutes to go before they reach the city itself, and another 15 minutes to navigate through traffic and end back up in their hotel. Atsumu parks the car and rolls down the windows by half-an-inch so as to give Bokuto and Hinata, still asleep in the back seats slumped shoulder-to-shoulder against each other, some fresh air.

Kiyoomi goes outside too, but not for any other reason apart from stretching his legs. After pacing around for a few minutes, Kiyoomi finds himself sitting on the hood of the car, looking upwards at the sky and trying to commit the stars from memory.

He feels before he sees and hears Atsumu sit with him, the dip in the car a dead giveaway. “Beautiful, right?”

“All these stars are dead,” Kiyoomi deadpans. “Their light takes so long to reach us that the things we’re seeing right now are nothing but after-images."

Atsumu hums a little beside him, pondering. “Still beautiful, though…~”

Kiyoomi fixes him a look. “We’re literally only looking at photographs of the sky. Singularities in the universe that are here one moment, and gone the next.”

The blonde just shrugs and opens a canned drink, pulling the tab off with ease. “Then doesn’t that just make ya think about how great each and every little moment is?"

“I… suppose,” he relents, going back to pensive thoughts.

Atsumu just smiles at him and offers the second can of Milkis that he bought, along with a packet of melonpan. Kiyoomi declines the offer for both definitively with a scoff. But he stays on the hood of the car, and Atsumu keeps him company, drinking and eating a small snack as they watched the night sky together. No words were spoken between then, mostly because they didn’t feel the need to talk. They’ve never really thought that they would enjoy the silence like this, with someone else. And definitely not with each other. It was a surprise, but a nice one, all the same.

And when Atsumu leans back with a tired groan and rolls his shoulders to ease the tension he got on them from driving, his fingers brush against Kiyoomi’s accidentally. He turns to apologize for the sudden contact, but he only hears Kiyoomi hum in response. Not a disgusted sound, nor even a particularly amused one. But more of a pleasant hum, a nice sound that reaches Atsumu’s ears and wedges itself into his brain files, committing itself to his memory. 

And although it was only for a few seconds that their fingers had touched, Kiyoomi feels like they’re on fire. He focuses his eyes upwards, traces the same constellations that he had traced ten minutes ago. They both didn’t feel compelled to speak earlier, and the same can be said now, as well. 

They stay like that for a couple more minutes, enjoying the silence, enjoying each other, fingers not exactly intertwined on the hood of the car but touching all the same, the chasm between them having inched closer — fractionally, marginally, but closer all the same. 

When Atsumu brushes his fingers against Kiyoomi’s again, it’s a little bit different than the first time. This time, it’s deliberate — soft and lingering touches, tracing Kiyoomi’s knuckles and the length of his fingers. The only thing that stays the same is that Kiyoomi doesn’t pull back, and he still makes that little hum that he did the first time. 

“Omi,” Atsumu prompts, and Kiyoomi takes his gaze down from the stars, locks in on the other man’s eyes. “Are ya sure ya don’t hate me?”

Kiyoomi can’t help but smile a little at that, never looking away. “Yes,” he says, as quiet as the evening around them. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He could say something else, literally everything else that had gone through his mind for the last six months. How his stomach clenches and his chest feels tight and his cheeks grow warm and his skin is on fire. He could tell him about every little furtive glance, every stare that’s one second too long, every little secret victory fist clench that he does when Atsumu performs his best. 

But… he doesn’t. That’s all he says. _Nothing more,_ he thinks. _For now._

_Everything else will just have to follow._

* * *

Exactly five minutes ago, Sakusa Kiyoomi finally acknowledges the fact that he is in love with one Miya Atsumu.

And exactly two minutes later, Miya Atsumu realizes that he feels the same way, and leans forward to close the distance between them.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'd appreciate you leaving kudos and comments! <3


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